


SMH (WTF)

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Cyrano de Bergerac Feels, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Inappropriate Use of Leonard Cohen, M/M, Sam is the Voice of Reason, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is feeling many things, and most can't be said with emojis. Luckily, Sam comes to the rescue. Less luckily, Dean finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. OMFG (IH8U)

**Author's Note:**

> This is short and silly. I wrote all of it already, and will upload it before tonight's episode if I have time. The story is set after _Red Meat_ , but it portrays a happy future where things are back to normal and the boys can focus on what really matters (romance stuff, and also, off the top of my head: buying a couch for the Bunker and decorating their rooms with anything that doesn't have traces of blood on it). Blame it on pre-episode nerves.

“So tell me you’re not texting _Lucifer_ ,” Dean says, raising his head from _Diamonds and Demonology: a Lover’s Approach_ and glaring at Sam.

Which he has every right to do, because Sam totally _is_ texting Lucifer, and what the fuck? Who even _does_ that? Except for his kid brother, that is. Who is a complete and utter -

“I’m not?” Sam says, but he looks guilt as hell.

Which is ironic, considering.

“Sam, for fuck’s sake,” Dean says, and now he’s standing up, because if he needs to physically _go_ there and wrench Sam’s phone from his hands to put a stop to this thing, he will fucking do it - just watch him.

“Look, I know. But we tried everything. It’s been six weeks, and there’s no sign of him. Maybe we should try and talk to the guy, Dean.”

Dean counts to ten in his head.

“You mean the guy who rotted in a Cage for billions of years before slithering out of it and trying to destroy the _world_? The guy who lived inside your head and almost made you _kill_ yourself? That guy?”

Sam juts his chin out.

“It wasn’t _billions_ of years. If the stories are true and he's got a beef with humanity, well, modern humans have only been around for -”

“Sammy, not the fucking point.”

Sam mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

Still, Dean sits back down. He glances at the book he’d been reading - this chapter seems to be mostly drawings, and whoa, Dean so didn’t need to know Molech had a barbed penis - and then up at Sam again. 

His stupid brother is now hiding behind his overgrown hair, and this is precisely the reason why he keeps it long, and Dean hates it.

(Nothing he can do about it, though, because even forming the words in his mind - _Just cut it already_ \- brings back nasty echoes of his dad saying the same thing to him; of his dad finally pinning him down and shaving his head after a particularly nasty hunt, because he’d been angry at Dean for almost dying and that had been his way of saying this stuff.)

So Dean doesn't say anything; he looks at Sam for another long moment instead - Sam’s sitting in his usual chair, his freakishly long legs spread out on a second chair in front of him, and he looks - God, he’s texting _Lucifer_ and he’s doing it for _him_.

There are so many times Dean was a shitty brother, but this takes the cake.

Because if Dean were in any way _rational_ about this, Sam wouldn’t _need_ to text Lucifer. If they approached this strategically - like Cas did (presumably; hopefully) - they would leave Lucifer well alone. Best case scenario, the fucker ganks the Darkness, and worst case scenario - worst case scenario -

Yeah.

But, still, it shouldn’t matter - what matters is saving the world. Nothing else. Also looking out for Sammy, and how is this looking out for Sammy?

(It really isn't.)

(Dean should put a stop to this.)

(Right now.)

“So, has he texted back?” asks Dean, unable to help himself.

“Yeah,” Sam says, in his quiet voice of guilt. “He says, _lol, fuckerz_.”

Dean just stares.

“I mean, he could at least have spelled that right,” Sam adds, frowning down at the phone.

“What?”

“He used a _z_ instead of a _s_ , and it’s not like it’s shorter, or anything -”

“Sammy. Again - not the _point_ , okay?”

Sam is still hiding behind his girly hair, but it doesn't really matter - Dean knows his tells, and he can see it clearly enough - the tension in Sam’s shoulders, and how carefully he’s sitting - oh, he’s feeling bad alright. And Dean needs to keep him there, because, yeah, feeling bad about being a nerd is much, much better than feeling bad about being (still) a vessel for Lucifer (about Lucifer wearing Sam's best friend and pushing a hand into his stomach and touching his soul, fucking again, just because he can), so.

“What did you say, then?”

“Nothing yet.”

“I meant, before.”

Sam scrolls back.

“ _We’re on the same side on this one_ ,” he reads, dutifully. “ _We have a common enemy, and if she gets her way, the world as we know it will cease to exist. Let’s make a deal and take her down together_.”

Dean shakes his head.

“You must stop reading that _Game of Thrones_ crap,” he says. “You sound deranged.”

This time, Sam looks up.

“I was simply describing the situation we’re actually in,” he points out, and now Dean feels a bitter taste in his mouth, again, because this is _his_ fault - if he hadn’t accepted the Mark of Cain in the first place - if -

There is a soft ping.

“Jesus, is that him again? What does he wants now?”

Sam stares at the screen, frowns.

“ _I DO WHAT I WANT_ ,” he says. “All capitals.”

“Oh for the love of - is he busy with an _Avengers_ marathon? Really? That’s what he’s being doing with his time?”

Sam opens his mouth, closes it again.

“Yes, I know it’s a Loki quote. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Sam, very, very carefully, not implying, not even for a second, that Loki never actually said that - that it’s something about the comic and about Tom Hiddleston, and if Dean knows about it, it’s either because he spends a lot of time online (that’s why Sam knows about it) or because he just likes to keep up with what Tom Hiddleston does.

No, Sam is not implying anything.

He's just sitting there quietly. 

Dean shuts the book with a loud noise.

“What the hell is he, drunk?” he asks, and, right on cue, his own phone pings.

“What is it?” Sam asks, after a while, and Dean is not about to say it’s a selfie of Cas (of _Lucifer_ ) making out with some guy with blue hair in what looks like a very seedy club.

He turns off the phone instead, his thumb pressing down so hard on the button he almost breaks it.

“Yeah, he’s drunk,” he says, gritting his teeth, and then he takes the thick volume about weird demonic dicks and flings it against the wall.

Sam pretends not to notice.

Dean breathes in and out a few times, and then puts his hand on the cover of the next thing on his list (Marlowe’s _Ravished by Magic_ ) and opens it at random and stares at the page until his eyes start working again and he can actually read. 

So, yeah - turns out that texting Lucifer wasn’t a good plan, or even an okay plan, and it doesn’t help against Lucifer in the slightest (shocker), and yet it’s the beginning of everything.

Of him and Cas, that is, and of Sam becoming the smuggest, most superior son of a bitch ever to walk the Earth.


	2. TTYL (IDK)

When Cas texts him, it’s so out of the blue Sam has to double-check the name on the screen to make sure this is _actually_ Cas. Which is reasonable, because they never texted much before, and the last few months - right.

 _I’m two hours away_ , the thing says, and before Sam can even think of a reply - he’s currently putting away the groceries, and he’s elbow deep in leafy things because, whatever Dean says, they _do_ have a kitchen and now the world isn’t ending they will use the _shit_ out of it - the phone pings again.

 _Sorry. That was meant for Dean_.

Okay, so this makes more sense. Dean is usually the one keeping up with Cas, after all.

 _But I am happy to see the both of you_ , says the next text, and now Sam huffs with amusement and puts down the milk on the counter and answers.

_I know, it’s okay. Happy to see you too. So, did you text Dean or should I tell him?_

This is sheer laziness on his part, but Dean is still taking care of the car and Sam doesn’t want to walk all the way back to the garage.

_I told him._

_Good._

For the next twenty minutes, Sam opens and closes the fridge as he tries to remember what it was that he wanted to cook and how to make it; then he gives up, fetches his laptop from the map room and Googles random ingredients (leeks, bacon, dried tomatoes) hoping something will come up.

He’s about to decide on some kind of pasta dish when the phone pings again.

_What does I DO WHAT I WANT means?_

Uh-oh. So Cas hadn’t - seen - Sam’s texts when Lucifer was in charge.

Sam’s fingers hesitate on the touches. It’s only been a couple of months, and Cas is still weird about it all - sometimes he takes off in the middle of the night and disappears and Dean is always a mess when he finds out - like, last Monday he’d come inside Sam’s room at six in the morning and asked him if he’d seen Cas at all, and he’d been jittery (in what he probably thought was an offhand, manly way) until Cas had finally replied to his texts, saying that, whatever, he was in the mountains somewhere and he’d come back on Friday.

Which is tonight.

_We tried contacting Lucifer. It didn’t work. You can erase those messages, if you want._

There are points for a while, and then nothing.

 _K_ , Cas says, after five minutes of writing, and Sam can’t help it: he laughs.

“What are you doing?” asks Dean, stopping on the threshold.

He looks _awful_. His clothes stink of motor oil and his hair is sticking up in a weird way and there’s this line of resignation and disappointment all the way from his mouth to his heart.

“Cooking,” Sam answers, and he doesn’t know _why_ he’s lying to Dean, exactly; it’s just how it happens.

“What’s wrong with pizza?”

“We talked about this already.”

“Whatever, Rapunzel. I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t burn the place down.”

“You’re thinking of Cinderella,” says Sam, a bit distractedly, but Dean is gone already.

God, his brother sure is miserable for someone who survived his third apocalypse and saved the world. 

Sam looks down at the phone again.

 _You’re not supposed to do that_ , he types. _It’s rude_.

 _That being what?_ asks Cas immediately, and Sam can almost smell the anxiety - Cas hates it when he doesn't act like a proper human (especially now, because, well).

 _You can’t type for five minutes and then say k_.

_I’m driving. And Claire does it all the time._

_As I said, rude_ , says Sam, and then decides Dean’s been through enough and that he’ll use the leeks some other time: tonight is a spaghetti and bacon kind of night.

 _I apologize_.

 _Where did you go, anyway?_ Sam asks, tearing the bacon package open with a careful, precise jab (and what if their lives could be this, he suddenly wonders; what if they could be the sort of people who only use knives to cook?).

The phone is silent for a long time; enough for Sam to abandon his foolish thoughts and dice the bacon and start on the eggs.

 _Around_ , Cas says in the end, because, yes, apparently he's been texting way too much with Claire; and then, before Sam can reply, he adds, _I’m lonely._

And Sam didn’t want to say this, okay? He really didn’t, because it’s none of his business. So if he types it in anyway, well, that is down to a moment of insanity, and no one should hold it against him.

_What about Dean?_

_I don’t think Dean is lonely_ , says Cas, managing somehow to both miss the point and get it in one.

Because the thing is, they all deal with pain in different ways, and, mostly, Dean deals with pain by drinking a lot and sleeping around - even though, to his credit, he hasn’t done either since Cas came back. Which is irrelevant, in a way, because he still talks about it - a _lot_. He seems particularly proud of this waitress he claims to have bedded several times, 'because, dude, the rack on her', and he mentions her name and her bra size at seemingly random moments (though sometimes it’s Laura and sometimes it’s Lila and Dean clearly thinks he's talking about the same person, some woman blessed with double Ds who, and Sam feels like a dick for even wondering this, may not exist at all).

So if he types back _You’re wrong_ , well, that’s totally justified.

There's only so much douchebaggery and fear and denial Sam can ignore, after all, and if Cas is trusting enough to be hurt by these Laura/Lila stories, it's time someone set him straight.

Again, the reply is a long time coming. The water is almost boiling by the time the phone pings again and Sam reads the little sad letters: _I don’t know what to do_.

Which is heartbreaking and could also be seen, in the right light, as a request for help.

Yes.

Definitely.

It's not like Sam _wanted_ to get involved, but if Cas is asking, well. He's not _completely_ heartless.


	3. BLNT (404)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, an urgent deadline came up - it's been a nightmare - I have to somehow translate an invisible text and I haven't had time to update and I haven't even seen the new episode yet (Gaaaaaah) and this fic is now _A Bit Not Good_ and, I swear, those two are just - someone _stop_ them.

Dean takes a very long shower. He thinks about making it even longer, but in the end, he decides he can’t be bothered. So he just scrubs his hair and his skin clean - it’s not that he dislikes the smell, but he heard somewhere as a child (from fucking Bobby, probably) that if you can _smell_ motor oil, then it can catch on fire, and that’s why he’s always extra careful. The last thing he needs is to salt and burn a grave and become a mass of shrieking flames in the process.

Not that he’s planning a hunt, tonight or over the next couple of weeks.

Things have been very quiet.

Maybe _too_ quiet.

With a sigh, he turns the water off, dries himself in a perfunctory way and then makes his way back to his room, the towel hanging low on his hips.

There’s the faint sound of pans coming from the kitchen, and then Sam’s laughter - what the hell is he laughing at, all the goddamn time? Is he _high_?

Of course, there _are_ reasons to be happy, Dean quickly amends, moving around his room and getting some fresh clothes out. Amara is dead. Lucifer is dead. Heaven is sort of working, and so is Hell. And Cas -

Dean’s heart makes a little thing inside his chest which it has no business doing, because Cas is _fine_. And he’s definitely coming back.

_Right_.

His phone pings.

Dean picks it up, because, yeah, with his luck, this will definitely be a case and -

_I miss you._

The words are very clear, and yet they make no sense at all, because it’s from _Cas_.

Dean stares down at it for a few seconds, and then scrolls back when he realizes he missed two messages.

_I will be there in two hours_ , says the first.

_I hope we can spend some time together_ , says the second.

And then, before Dean has even understood what the fuck is happening, his eyes fall on the third message again and he swallows.

_I miss you_.

Okay, it’s not like Cas isn’t weird and direct and doesn’t say weird, direct stuff all the time - Dean can’t exactly remember, but he has dreams about Cas standing way too close to him, his Grace fiery and burning; about Cas saying, _Everyone except me_. And he knows, can feel it against his skin when he wakes up, that there was something around that - an idea of eternity, and the promise of forever.

He’s never mentioned it to Cas.

What would be the point?

He looks down at the screen again.

_I miss you_.

God, it’s been four minutes. He _has_ to say something. He doesn’t _want_ to say something, though, especially not like this, when he’s naked and his hair is dripping a bit and he doesn’t know what the hell to say because his lungs are inside out, but all that doesn’t matter - he _has_ to say something.

But the thing is, Cas didn’t mean it like that. Probably has no idea how it sounds, and all.

_You eating?_ he writes, and the second the thing is sent he wants to kick himself.

_No_ , Cas texts back at once, and there it is, in those two black letters: proof that he didn’t understand what Dean was trying to say ( _Where are you? I’ll meet you halfway, we’ll have dinner_ ) because Dean is an idiot and that was definitely too long a leap.

_You sticking around this time?_ he writes next, and that’s another mistake, because it sounds way more aggressive than he’d meant it. 

_Yes_ , Cas says; and then, when too much time has passed and it doesn’t make sense anymore, he adds, _Do you want me to?_

Dean hears the ping of the phone - he ends up reading the text as he’s pulling his jeans up, and the screen goes black half sentence, so he pokes at it with his chin and falls over.

“ _Goddammit_.”

But when he checks again, his heart in his mouth and ready to blame the whole thing on a concussion, he finds he can’t, because, yeah, that’s exactly what the text said.

_Do you want me to?_

Dean puts the phone down, passes a hand through his hair, picks it up again, swears when he realizes he’s gotten the screen wet.

Because, how clueless can Cas _be_? And why does he keep _doing_ these things - standing too close and looking at Dean’s lips and smiling softly at him and blabber about how much he likes Dean and trusts Dean and, yeah, that’s gay as hell - always has been - Dean remembers glaring at Bobby, and Sam (the bastard) a _lot_ over those first few months, just _daring_ them to say something.

Because the answer is: _very_ clueless.

Cas may be billions of years old and an outstanding strategist and he may have perfect mastery of every language ever spoken and every weapon ever invented, but he’s also an idiot who doesn’t understand a goddamn thing about humans.

Dean grits his teeth, reads the message again.

_Do you want me to?_

_Sure thing_ , he writes, which is perfectly true, and also manly enough to be completely allowed. 

There. Problem solved.

Plus, Cas already said he’d been staying before asking that weird question, so it’s a moot point either way.

Dean puts the phone down because he’s not about to catch a cold and die while waiting for a reply when he’s only half-dressed, okay? and once he has his usual three layers of shirts on he does feel a bit better.

He even takes a step closer to the door, then hesitates when he realizes it’s probably dinner time by now, and Sam was cooking, and that means eating like humans at the table instead of taking a bite of something or other as they do when they’re working a case; because there isn’t a case, that is, and that means talking and stuff.

And if Sam sees him right now - if he mentions Cas at all - yeah, Dean can do without that particular brand of smugness and _Oh my God it’s adorable_ that’s so uniquely Sam.

Because Cas may have said he’s staying, but he never said for how long, and time doesn’t mean anything to an immortal creature, anyway. Hell, _men_ don’t mean anything to an immortal creature. So, well.

The phone pings.

_Anything good on the Netflix?_

Oh for _fuck’s_ sake. If Cas is about to suggest that they Netflix and chill, someone is going to die tonight, because Dean just found this new trident thing in one of the Bunker’s storerooms and it looks cool as fuck and he’s definitely going to use it on whoever -

_I still have to see the last season of Game of Thrones_ , Cas writes, and thank God, because it does distract Dean from his current train of thought and now they’re moving away from weird date territory.

Game of Thrones: he can work with that.

“Hey, dinner!”

Sam’s voice carries way too clearly through the Bunker, as was to be expected from someone who has the lung capacity of a small walrus. Still, it’s annoying. Thank God Sam is mostly quiet - he doesn’t play videogames, or have sex (like, ever, because, loser alert) or engage in any of those other activities which require enthusiastic yelling, so Dean mostly hears his voice through the walls when -

_Yeah, let’s not go there_ , he thinks, pushing his phone deep inside his pocket and passing his hands through his hair so it doesn't dry weird.

Something else he doesn’t need: to remember what it’s like to stand on the threshold of Sam’s room and look at his brother’s nightmares. Because they are so vivid, Dean can almost _see_ them - he sees Lucifer in the way Sam’s elbow comes down in a sharp blow - because he hits, always, the place where Lucifer’s neck would be if he were tackling (or hugging) Sam from behind. He also knows what Lucifer does, because on some nights, Sam talks in Lucifer’s voice and he laughs and quotes things and says _Sammy Sammy Sammy_ and _You’re mine_ and _I love you_ over and over again. And this is usually when Dean can’t take it anymore and he climbs into his brother’s bed and holds him down in what is not quite a hug (though Sam turns it into a hug, more often than not, and he sighs in Dean’s shoulder without waking up).

The look in Sam’s eyes the morning after? The same look Cas now has all the goddamn time. Since that final battle (although, _battle_ is kind of a precise term to describe what had been an explosion of guts and magic), Dean has seen him smile twice: once when he’d turned towards them in that field, his shirt half torn and his trench coat red with - things - and had seen the two of them were actually alright - alive and well (Dean had been trying to stand up despite his broken leg, and Sam’s eyes had gone almost black, but all that had been fixed in a matter of minutes). And the second time, Dean had come into the map room during the night, after a nightmare had woken him up, and he’d found Cas looking at a nature documentary in Spanish.

“ _Folivoros_ ,” he’d said, in answer to Dean’s questioning stare. “Sloths. They used to be thirteen feet tall, you know? I remember that well. I liked them. They were quiet, gentle creatures.”

Dean hadn’t said anything to that, hoping Cas would go on, because that was the most he’d said in three weeks, but Cas had turned back to the laptop after that. Dean had hesitated on the other side of the table for an indecently long time, both wishing he could go there and pat Cas’ head and maybe hug him (maybe _kiss_ him) and tell him how fucking grateful he was Cas had survived and also imagining this dorky angel (his dorky angel) walking around some gigantic forest and looking at sloths the size of a goddamn elephant.

In his mind’s eye, the scene was both melancholic and slightly ridiculous, because, of course, he’d imagined Cas as he’d always known Cas - as a bedheaded man wearing common, ill-fitting clothes.

He hadn’t thought, not for a second, about what Cas could have been instead - the sloth or some tree or a weirdass dinosaur bird in the sky or the sky itself - because he’d trained himself not to think like that; never to remember that Cas wasn’t actually human, and therefore his mind and motives were his own. 

Because Dean had been taught from childhood to read people and to use people; and to do it well, because his survival (and Sam’s) hinged on it. 

But Cas, he can’t read.

And this scares him to death.

How can he know what Cas wants - how can he give it to him - if he doesn’t even know - if he doesn’t _understand_ -

_God_.

“Dean, come _on_!”

Dean shakes his head, finally walks out of his room.

He’s not going to overthink this. The world is quiet now, and that’s good. Crowley has Hell under control, and some dick named Pahaliah (and, seriously, what the fuck?) is getting Heaven up and running again and Sam is mostly alright and Cas is coming home in time for dessert.

So, yeah. That’s how it is, and it’s good.

_Why not_ , he texts, very quickly, and then walks into the kitchen and finds, to his relief, that he was wrong. Sam is already sitting in the map room, his laptop casting a bluish glow upon his face, and he’s left a second plate full of - what is that? Dean can definitely smell bacon - on the other side of the table.

“Something come up?” Dean asks, sitting down in front of it and grabbing one of the beers Sam left by his plate.

“Just checking. It’s been too quiet.”

“Yeah.”

Dean shovels a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and - oh my God - 

“This is _awesome_ ,” he says, swallowing. “What is it?”

“Red carbonara,” says Sam, a bit distractedly.

Dean’s phone pings.

_I’m looking forward to it. I miss spending time with you_ , the text says, and, nope, not happening.

Shooting a furtive glance at Sam, Dean tries to bring the conversation back to safer ground.

_Why do you like GoT so much, anyway?_

There: a perfectly valid topic of conversation.

On the other side of the table, Sam’s mouth twitches.

Dean keeps eating, because this stuff is seriously delicious and if Sam didn’t think to cook triple portions he’ll definitely beat him over the head with something very heavy.

_It’s realistic_ , Cas says.

“Are you talking to Cas? Is he coming back, then?” Sam asks, tapping away on his computer.

“Yeah. Tonight, or something,” says Dean, and then he makes a mistake - he takes another bite of spaghetti just as Cas adds something else.

_I very much enjoy their approach to sex and war._

Dean strangles himself - almost dies - then coughs and takes a swig of beer and comes back to life.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. This shit is good,” Dean says, vaguely, gesturing at his plate and picking his phone up.

His fingers hover over the screen for a second.

_What do you care about sex? You’re an angel_ , he types, and sends it before he can lose his nerve.

And the thing is, he’s not even flirting. Well, maybe a bit. But, mostly, he’s - trying to understand what Cas even _wants_ , and he’s honestly bewildered that this guy - a bona fide two billion-year-old virgin (or, well) - this guy who’d stuttered and blushed when Dean had tried chaperoning him into a brothel ( _This a den of iniquity - I should not be here_ ) - would be into _Game of Thrones_ because of the _ladies_. What the _hell_?

_Angels are perfectly able to have sex, particularly if they have secured a human vessel_ , is Cas’ reply, and Dean can just about see Cas’ puzzled expression, but it doesn’t matter much, because, yeah, this is still not what he was asking.

_Yeah, but do they want to have sex?_ he writes back, his food forgotten.

_Some of them, yes._

And this is another one of those moments - Dean is so used to them, by now he can see them coming. Because this is like standing in front of that fucking Gas-N-Sip all over again.

Only this time - this time Cas is not going on a date with Whatsherface. Cas is coming back here. Alone. To be with them.

(With _him_.)

So Dean does it.

_Do you?_

Cas starts to write what must be a very long, very detailed novel. Then erases it all again. Then he writes again. Dean glances at Sam, but Sam is completely oblivious. He’s dangling the fork from his mouth as he types something into his laptop. Dean knows Sam’s routine, because his own is very similar. Sam must be finished with police reports by now, and he’s certainly moved on to local papers, searching for mutilated bodies, Satanic symbols, missing persons and the like, because their job is just that much fun.

And then his phone pings again and Dean passes his sweaty hand on his thigh and reads the message.

_Why do you ask?_

Oh for fuck’s sake. Now he has to develop _subtlety_? Really? _Now_?

Dean puts the phone down, starts on his pasta again, even if it’s almost cold and a bit gross by now.

If this were - hell, not even a woman, but a human being - Dean would definitely start flirting. Because, come on. Surely the only appropriate answer to that is _Can’t you guess?_ and then some kind of douchey emoji. Or maybe, _You know why_. Or even, _Just tell me_ , because some people like it when Dean is bossy, and Cas may be no exception.

( _Don’t go there_.)

But, yeah, this is _not_ a human being. That was probably an honest question, with no ulterior motives whatsoever.

_Fuck_.

Dean licks his lips, answers.

_It's just - when you were human you were gagging for it, man, and then when you changed back you lost all interest._

The pause that follows is so long Dean starts to wonder if Cas even got the text. Maybe he ran out of gas or something, had to stop, left the phone in the car.

Maybe the car was stolen and now Cas is stranded and they will get a call any minute from some shitty gas station and Dean will have to go and pick Cas up and Cas won’t ask about that unseen text because he was just having some kind of conversation, like humans do, and he didn’t mean anything by any of it.

And then, when Dean is already planning and speculating and trying to guess where, exactly, Cas may be, the phone pings again and he almost jumps out of his skin.

_When I was human, I had vaginal intercourse once_ , Cas texts back, and even though it's words on a screen, Dean can almost hear how careful he is. _I think that hardly qualifies as gagging for it._

And Dean - there are a lot of things he wants to do. He wants to sigh out in relief, because, really, one time is _nothing_ and fuck that bitch, and he wants to ask about other things, because it’s high time someone gave Cas some proper pleasure and Dean desperately wants to be the first one (which is not only a douchey, proprietary, backward instinct, but also something completely new for him - during his long and honorable career, he’s never slept with a virgin, and he’s never even been curious to try). And he wants to explain what he meant - God, that thing at the Gas-N-Sip is still eating at him, after two years, and that is _pathetic_ \- but then Cas adds something else.

_Still, I'm sorry I hurt you_ , Cas adds, before Dean can think of what to say next, and that is stupid, okay, because why the hell would any of that (sex with April, that is) hurt _Dean_?

But, of course, he’s probably talking about him dying - about April killing him - and not -

(Because Dean had not been jealous, on any level, when he’d found out. He hadn’t felt a powerful surge of protectiveness when Cas had frowned at him, when he’d said, _I had my angel blade_. And he definitely hadn’t planned a long and convoluted conversation in his mind - something that started with how condoms worked and somehow ended with them rolling around on Dean’s bed and -)

_I wasn't talking about that. Never mind_ , Dean writes, because it’s way easier than saying all those other things.

“Do you mind if I put on some music?” asks Sam, pushing his empty plate to one side.

“I mind if it’s _your_ music,” he answers, and then he takes another swig of beer and checks his watch.

Cas said two hours, which means he’ll be here in forty minutes or so.

Something that sounds suspiciously like Leonard Cohen starts playing from Sam’s laptop.

“Oh, come _on_.”

“Shut up. He’s a poet.”

“He’s _Canadian_ , it’s what he is,” Dean grumbles, but then his phone pings again and he forgets his irritation.

_What were you talking about?_ Cas asks, and somehow the question seems deep and meaningful - trust that goddamn haunting music to make everything that much worse.

Dean taps his fingers on the table (and he’s not following the rhythm at all, he’s just nervous) as he thinks about what to say.

_I was talking about your lady friend in Idaho. I mean, you said you wanted to be normal, settle down._

Sam lets out some kind of sigh.

Leonard Cohen says, _My body is the light, my body is the way_.

Which has no right to sound so damn _sultry_. It’s probably a metaphor, anyway. Nothing to do with sex at all.

_That has nothing to do with sex at all_ , says Cas next, and for one horrible moment Dean thinks Cas can see inside his mind and freaks out.

As anyone would.

Because it's not about Dean, specifically, and it has nothing to do with all these things inside Dean’s brain - with those thousands of memories of Cas’ face and Cas’ blue as fuck eyes and that strip of skin that goes from his neck to his collarbone and that Dean can’t help but stare at; with some very vivid daydreams about opening Cas’ shirt, one button after the other (with those _other_ daydreams which, somehow, are even more one-sided and pathetic: he and Cas holding hands and shopping for things; he and Cas having breakfast together, or driving to the beach, or simply sleeping in the same bed, as if -). No, it has nothing to do with _any_ of that. No, if Cas is spying on him, that would be a gross invasion of personal privacy, and everyone’s concerned about that. It’s in the papers every damn day, that’s how much literally _everyone_ (people who are not Dean, that is: _normal_ people) is interested in the issue. That’s all.

And then, before Dean can calm down and realize he’s worrying over nothing, Leonard Cohen says, _And there is no man or woman who can't be touched, but you who come between them will be judged_ and Cas adds something else.

_That’s love and companionship. Are you asking if I’m interested in those?_

Oh for God’s sake.

_I’m not asking anything_ , Dean types back, and he’s suddenly angry (not at Cas, or not too much at Cas: mostly at himself), because this is a conversation he didn’t want to have in the first place and if Cas wants to say something he should just come out and say it.

There is a very long pause after that. Time for the whole of _Hallelujah_ to come and go, which allows Dean to roll his eyes at Sam and try to push back againt all the tragic memories the song brings up - because there’s just something about it which is turning his restless mood into something all black and blue and desperately lonely.

“What are you really doing?” he asks Sam, in the end, because Sam is typing way too much for this to be about looking for cases.

“Eileen,” Sam says, automatically, and then blushes, because he’s never talked about her and never admitted to any kind of interaction, not even after Dean had found a suspiciously girly birthday card in Sam’s jacket (and who else would Sam be sending cards to?). “I meant I’m skyping with her. And I didn’t mean Eileen, I meant Jody,” he amends, and Dean’s eyebrows move so high on his forehead he can physically feel them disappear into his hairline.

“Sure you did,” he says, and he’s about to add something, because Sam is very clearly lying, when his phone pings again.

_Yes you are. You have been asking the same question for years_.

Dean has no answer to that. None. And he’s starting to feel like an idiot just sitting there and staring down at his phone, so he stands up, grabs his laptop and starts on the _Lebanon Herald_ , because clearly whatever Sam is doing has nothing to do with hunting and they still have a job to do and someone has to do it.

Also, the thing is, there are lots of questions Dean’s been asking for years. Mostly _Why me_ , but also _Why isn’t there burger-flavoured pie_ and _Why do slinkies not bounce downstairs_ and _Why are cats assholes_ and _Why is it that every goddamn time we bring down an all-powerful psycho, another one pops right up_. So Dean doesn’t know, not really, what Cas is referring to.

Just as he’s clicking on article on a missing dog, his phone pings again.

_The answer is yes_ , Cas says, and that makes even less sense.

And then: _I don’t care, I’m telling him_.

And this time, Dean can’t help but connect Sam’s irritated huff to the weird stuff coming out of Cas’ phone. 

And, well, he’s been a hunter for years. His reflexes are very, very good. Without disturbing anything - his open laptop, the two empty cans of beer, the sturdy 1950s plate - he rolls across the desk and grabs Sam’s laptop before Sam can get it out of the way.

“ _Hey_ ,” Sam protests, but yeah, he can fuck right off.

Dean finishes the movement by standing up on the other side of the table - Sam’s side - and stepping back so Sam can’t get at him.

And when he glances down at the screen, he see all of his messages flashing up at him. And in between there is stuff from Cas - stuff like, _I’m not saying that_ and _Are you sure?_ \- and Dean can’t -

“No - please don't,” says Sam, when he sees Dean is about to throw the computer against the wall, and Dean breathes in, and then out, and then, very carefully, he puts the laptop down.

He’s about to walk away when Sam makes the mistake of speaking again.

“Look, I’m sorry, it's just -”

But there’s nothing it can just be.

Dean turns back and picks up Sam’s plate and then - Sam must see it on his face, but he doesn’t move away, he just closes his eyes, and that makes Dean feel even worse - the plate comes one millimeter from Sam’s cheekbone, and it’s a miracle, really, that Dean was able to stop mid-movement, because the instinct to hurt his brother is almost overwhelming.

“You _never_ speak to me again,” he says, low and dangerous, and then he walks out; out of the room, out of the Bunker, and, with some luck, out of everyone’s lives.


	4. STFU (ILU)

Thirty minutes later, Dean is completely drunk, because he’s efficient like that. He kicked it off with a very large beer (strong and bitter), then he had three glass of whiskey (neat), and next six shots of cranberry vodka, and finally two cocktails with weird names, just for the hell of it. The empty glasses are scattered in front of him (he tried to build some kind of tower with the vodka glasses, but no luck) and Dean’s currently sipping his third cocktail using three straws (a blue one and a pink one and a purple one).

Around him, the bar is very loud, but, hey, at least the music is good (at the moment: a song by Bob Seger which may be called something like _Roll Me Up_ or _Roll Me Down_ or _Roll Me Away_ \- Dean’s too drunk to remember and way too drunk to care).

And the best thing is, people are leaving him alone.

Which is exactly what he wants.

When he’d come in, one of the bartenders had actually reached for the baseball bat under the counter - both because Dean’s face had somehow indicated he wasn’t above starting a fight and beating people bloody, and because this was a new guy who didn’t know Dean and didn’t know that a baseball bat against Dean fucking Winchester - yeah, that’s not something you want to try. So it was lucky, really, that Tom's working tonight - he’d come in from the back, understood the thing at once and shooed the new guy away as he poured Dean his favourite beer.

Because Tom knows Dean - his sister was having some trouble with a shittier than average witch, and Dean had fixed that on a Saturday morning without even involving Sam - and he knows how dangerous Dean can be and also how much Dean would regret hurting people he doesn’t have to hurt. In fact, last time Dean had come in here feeling like something a cat had thrown up, Tom had cheered him up with a handjob in the bathroom, which is another reason Dean likes this guy - because he’s fun and uncomplicated and isn’t looking for anything.

“Ready to talk yet?” Tom asks now, pouring some kind of blue thing in a tall glass, and Dean shakes his head.

“‘M never talking again,” he says, solemnly, the words barely this side of slurred - which is a freaking miracle, considering.

“Okay. Should I call your brother?”

“Fuck him.”

“Great. I will.”

Dean laughs, and once he’s started, he can’t stop.

“Fuck him,” he says again, in what he thinks he’s a whisper, and then he leans over the counter and knocks his drink down by mistake. “Oh, shit. S’rry.”

“I’ll get you another one, no worries,” Tom says, and Dean grabs his arm when Tom starts mopping the spilled drink, because there’s an intricate pattern going from Tom’s fingers up to his elbow and it’s some kind of web, or maybe scales, and it’s the most beautiful thing ever and it looks like it’s moving -

“Am I interrupting?” asks a very dry voice from his right, and Dean blinks, looks up.

Cas is standing there, and he’s looking all shades of fierce and badass.

Dean feels the arm under his fingers tugging away, and sort of hears Tom mumbling an apology before disappearing round the back, because, yeah, when Cas looks like this -

But Dean is angry at Cas. For some reason. Something involving Sam.

“So, you found me,” he says, turning back towards the counter; and then he blinks at the bottles on the wall, because they’re moving as well, and that doesn’t make any sense.

“I can hear you heartbeat from five hundred miles away. You think I can’t find you in a fucking bar five miles from the Bunker?”

Cas almost never swears, and when he does, he usually gets it wrong, so that definitely grabs Dean’s attention.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re awesome,” he says, all bitter, looking down at Cas’ hands on the dark wood and wishing -

“Come on. You’ve had enough. Let me drive you home.”

“Don’t wanna,” Dean says, closing his eyes and passing a hand on his face.

There’s something very important he should remember - the whole reason why he’s here - but all he’s got is something about texts and Sam being a goddamn bastard. Which doesn’t narrow it down all that much.

Cas sighs.

Since Tom is apparently staying the hell away, Cas bends over, grabs two glasses and the one bottle he can reach - that blue thing Tom had been fiddling with - then turns towards Dean again.

“Why do you have to be so infuriating all the time?” he asks, seemingly to himself, and Dean is unable not to look at him, because he can feel the weight of Cas’ eyes against his skin and soul.

And yet looking up is a mistake. Despite his weird mood and his disappearing act, Cas has grown stronger since that showdown against Amara - he even has his wings back - and now he looks just as Dean remembers him - not only as the creature who once walked into a barn and made sparks fly, but as that other thing - something incredibly powerful and incredibly gentle - a vague impression of light and stars - Dean has dreams about it, sometimes; of the thing shielding him and warming him up as a voice said, over and over again, _Dean Winchester is saved_.

So, yeah, he looks like a true seraph now.

Also: hot as fuck.

Before Dean can figure out if he has an answer to that, Cas reaches out, plucks a green cocktail umbrella from behind Dean’s ear, shakes his head.

“You confuse me, Dean.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles; and then he grabs the front of Cas’ trench coat, closes his fingers very tightly on the soft fabric. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s my fault, in any case. I shouldn’t have brought Sam into this.”

Oh, yes, that’s what happened. Right. Dean had been talking to Cas, and then Sam - or whatever. Dean can’t be bothered with it now. His brother has seen him naked and broken and also when he was a sobbing, gibbering mess - so if he knows, or suspects, that Dean is hot for Cas - well, let him. He’s not wrong, after all.

Dean picks up the blue thing bottle with his left hand and almost manages to fill both glasses.

“Not your fault. I should have,” he says, vaguely; and then he forgets about the glass entirely and just drinks from the bottle.

God, whatever the thing is, it’s _vile_. His fingers tighten on Cas’ coat as he anchors himself and shakes his head, trying to be rid of the flavour.

“Dean, can I ask you something?” Cas asks, and goddammit, he’s still not sitting down. Instead, he’s sort of standing way too close to Dean, looking down at the whole drunken mess Dean is; somehow blotting out both lights and music.

“Anything,” says Dean, even if the word is heavy on his tongue. He tastes it, moves it around in his mouth, and then spits out the rest of it. “‘S all yours, anyway.”

Cas’ hand comes up, then, as if to touch Dean’s shoulder, and then falls back on the counter again.

“Why have we never kissed?” he asks, and Dean freezes.

“What?”

“Why have we never -”

“Yeah, I heard you the fir - first time.”

“You said _what_.”

Dean looks up at Cas - he’s somehow toned it down, and he’s just another person now - someone who doesn’t own a comb, or even a decent shirt, but a person nonetheless - and yet there is still something inside his eyes -

(A wide open field, red with sunset and blood. Cas looking up at the sky and yelling in victory and pain and unbridled fury, his wings exploding into being, tearing his stupid coat to shreds - Dean can still hear Sam’s whispered prayer, and the panicked beating of his own heart, because that - because -)

\- and Dean knows what that something is, because he has a mirror and mostly uses it and sometimes he even looks at his own eyes, even if he’s terrified, every damn time, that one day they’ll turn black again. 

“People kiss each other when they’re in love,” he says, stupidly; and then he licks his lips, and he waits, and Cas -

“I know.”

Dean is silent for a long time. He knows how important this it, but he can’t think straight, and now there’s so much shit pressing against the back of his head - not only that unfocused anger and resentment and guilt he’s always, always feeling, and not only that constant drum of fear (that Sam will be hurt, that Cas will be hurt, that people will die because of him; that he’ll die and end up in Hell again). No, now he’s terrified, because if he fucks this up - if -

“I can’t,” he says, weakly. “I’m not - Cas, I’m nothing.”

And this time, Cas does touch his shoulder, right over where there’s still a faint trace of his handprint - a promise and a claim.

“Don't say that. You are _everything_ ,” he says, his voice even more sandpapery than usual, and Dean shivers under his touch.

“Just - get on with it, then.”

Cas’ hand was on his shoulder, warm and comforting; and then it moves down his arm, finds Dean’s hand, laces their fingers together. Tugs slightly, until Dean has to stand up, and he does, and almost stumbles against Cas, because, yeah, he’s definitely _very_ drunk.

He moves his other hand to Cas’ waist to steady himself, lowers his forehead against Cas'.

“Just - don’t leave me again, ‘kay?” he mumbles, and feels Cas’ fingers tighten around his own; and, before Cas can say anything back, Dean tips his head forward, just a bit, and kisses Cas on the lips.

It’s nothing much, perhaps - just a close-lipped kiss that lasts about five seconds before Dean sighs and breaks it off and pushes his nose against Cas’ cheek to feel the stubble on his skin - and yet it is, in a way, everything.

“Dean, I -” Cas says, against his hair, and Dean dips his head against Cas’ neck.

“I know,” he says, sleepily.

“Let’s get you home,” Cas says, after a short pause, and there is such tenderness in his voice Dean wants to cry.

He doesn’t, though. He just follows Cas through the bar, his step almost steady, and he climbs into Cas’ stupid car, and he even sobers a bit during the ride home, because Cas has rolled down all the windows and the summer air smells like pies and promises.

And when they get to the Bunker, Sam is still where Dean left him, and this time it’s quite possible he’s actually skyping with Eileen, because he doesn’t hear them come in and Dean gets to enjoy the way he moves his fingers around and says, “Sorry - that can’t be right, can it?” before looking up and seeing them on the threshold and standing up, his expression changing to worry and guilt.

“Dean, I -” he says, and Dean waves him off.

“I know,” he says, and then he tries to take a step forward, almost falls down.

“Jesus, you’ve been gone one hour - what happened to you?”

“Shut up. ‘Ad one drink.”

“From where? The Lethe?”

Cas actually snorts at that.

“Fucking nerds,” Dean mutters, and this time his attempt at moving around is actually successful - step after step, he crosses the room, gets to the corridor opening up beyond it.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Dean steadies himself for a moment, his hand splayed open against the wall.

“Yeah,” he says, “Jus’ need to sleep.”

He looks back at the room, his eyes moving from Sam (still standing up and frowning and _goddammit_ , he has no business looking so damn _worried_ , it’s not like Dean is dying, or anything) to Cas (now simply himself, his tie not properly knotted and his shirt a bit frayed and his eyes open and kind, without a trace of that _I’m lost and alone and in pain_ thing that had broken Dean from the inside out). And then he keeps looking at Cas, for some reason. He remembers, in vivid, jagged pieces, pushing a knife through Cas’ heart and watching Cas walk into a river and finding Cas in that grey forest - remembers that’s when he’d _known_ , really, because Dean’s a stupid bastard and he hates needing anyone and he hates wanting anything for himself, but right there and then, he’d known, and God - he loves Cas so damn _much_.

“You coming?” he asks, and Cas smiles.

And, yeah, maybe it’s not ideal, because he’s still drunk as a skunk and he won’t let Cas heal him (those angelic things tend to work a little too well, and last time Dean had been instantly sober but he’d also thrown up at random moments for a week, so) and he couldn’t get it up if he tried and Cas keeps insisting he doesn’t want to do _anything_ , absolutely _not_ , because Dean is out of his mind and _It doesn’t matter, you know I want you_ and _That’s not the point, please go to sleep_ and in the end Dean just curls around Cas and feels Cas’ naked skin under his fingers (because on this, at least, Cas has given up, and they’ve both stripped down to their briefs, and Cas is hot as a furnace and Dean forces his legs open, just a bit, so he can rest his knee up against Cas' thigh and he can’t believe they never did this before, because it feels so damn _right_ ) and he pushes his nose against Cas’ collarbone and sighs.

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” he mumbles, turning a bit so he can kiss Cas’ skin.

“I know,” says Cas, serenely. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“Oh, I will,” Dean says, and he’s about to make another attempt to weaken Cas’ resolve - he moves his left hand, just a bit, until his fingers almost graze Cas’ nipple - when he falls asleep, and it’s a peaceful, quiet thing, with no nightmares and no bad stuff and no voices whispering at him ( _You and I, we’re very much alike_ ) and if this is how things will be from now on, hell, it may be gay as fuck, but Dean will take it anyway, because it's plain perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. Almost fluffy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys. :)


End file.
